Kelli Russell Agodon - 2

What the Universe Makes of Lingerie

It’s impossible to see a black bradirectly as no light can escape from it;still there are supernovas, dark matter,

meteorites in its path. The black braunderstands its usefulness is overrated.It’s problematic under a white

shirt of a white woman, unprofessionalpeeking out of a blazer. To seeobservational evidence of black bras

you do not need to borrowthe Hubble telescope to view the HourglassNebula, their existence is well-supported,

a gravitational field so strongnothing can escape. Black bras​can be found in the back of a Vega

between the vinyl seats. It is the starthe boy wishes on—he is never the masterof the unhook, Orion unfastening

his constellation belt. Let it remaina mystery, something almost seen,almost touched in a Galaxy. I’d call it

rocketworthy, but there is cosmiccensorship, naked singularitiesto consider. The black bra has electric

charge, too close to the event horizon,a man disappears in its loophole, escapevelocity equal to the speed of light.​

With a Dream Psychic

Expect a sort of heaven to appearin your living room by Friday. This may mean you will die soonor that life will be easy for a while. It depends on the angels. Bleeding and begging angels are never a good sign.If they were singing gospel and wearing halos,then expect answers to circle you. But if you wore their wings, be cautiousof bulldozers, unicycles, anything with wheels. Yes, even cars. Good question. Don’t borrow from visitors this week. Try to talk to the angels when they appear,especially the one with a machete.He has your secret. Be lucid. Soar with him. You don’t need his wings to fly. Trust meon this. You’re not the first to dreamof angels with weapons. I’ve known presidentswith that same type of guilt. No, not every dream has to do with sex,only the good ones. And that white picket fence you observed,it signifies peace of mind. You’ll soon be freefrom anxiety. Unless it was in ruins. You may now offer my soul fifty dollars. Your lucky number is eight.Your power color is white.Your psychic insect is the mirror beetle.

Slow Waltz on a Hike with Damp Butterflies

What you unwrap is boxof yellowjackets, stingingnettles, and jellyjarsbecoming broken glass.This is not for the cottonhearted.This is for the man who holds firebetween his fingers and calls it love.We are burnttoast and prism jam.We are rubbing ourselves with the undersideof a fern trying to make the stinging stop.There are remedies everywhere--from beekeeper’s honey to handmade soap—we are what we keep near our skin.We are the stainedtowels we carry and the saintedbohemian monarchs that can’t fly.Or don’t want to.I place the constellations in my hand, thencomplain about the burning. Life sparks,weighs me down when I am tired.Let’s not say we have rocksin our pockets. Though I pretend I amthe novelist and you are the river.

Slow Waltz Where Your New Life Meets Your Old Habits

We lived or loved, or didn’t mow the lawn. We waited for dusk, for satellites, for the opening

of a book or a door. We felt the onlywords were escape or escapade,yet we couldn't decide which

to choose. We drank hot brandyon cold ridiculous nightsand said how when pleasure

refused us we would find itand knock it down. We said better than never, better

let the checks roll in, better not be an impossible mailbox sealed shut.Maybe the thank you cards

we never wrote for our wedding giftsthat didn't matter. Maybe they’d just be paper crockpots

a ripened SOS. And when it’s around, I become a side person, posed, risen,

I am opened, sirs. I can rearrange the letters but I cannot arrange it

from my life. Like playing Clue:it was sis in the den with a rope,

I keep waiting to find out the ending,

Rose, I spend my nights awakeand all those years I didn’t tell you, I pressed on.

Ghosts

My husband asks for a poem. I have many, but none to share. I live in a houseof irises where I am a ghost searching for words in my family’s mouths. They ask me to stoplooking and learn to cook, love them. My husbandhands me my ring and asks why I forget to wear it.We smile for the photograph only because we want to be rememberedas happy. And we are children wanting to pleasethe person behind the camera and future generationswho will see us. I try to carry my family in letters, in my suit pocketas I walk to the podium to read my poems. They are small ghosts in the paper. Their meal is ginger aleand burnt toast. Every window in my mindfaces them, and when I turn away, they still wave to me, ask for their voices back.

Letter to My Sister Who is Still Drowning

You tell me about the ovenbird,its orange crown traveling swamps after sunset.

You tell me it keeps an infant under its wingand that birds sense children underwater.

The dishes have soaked overnightand though you know it’s just your reflectionbetween suds, you mention Jude,how saints appear in the waves of every bodyof water.

We never talk about the summer you disappearedinto the lake, a kingfisher hovering over the shadowof where you just were

How I watched from land, watched waterexit from your chest, your mouthin a burst as our father tossed you to shoreshouting: Breathe, breathe!

Sometimes, I don’t know how to respondwhen you open the refrigerator door and laughbecause you see a vision in the cantaloupe.

Someone has carved Mary into the orange center,you say as if this world has not flooded around us,as if everything in this life made sense.

Speech Lessons The fewer words, the better prayer —Martin Luther

Because the girl didn’t speakuntil she was sixteen,when she spoke

a bicycle rolled from her tongue,spinning down a hill

past the stop sign, a red sinkof pots to the dyslexic housewife,

past a charm of goldfinches,a storytelling of ravens,an alphabet of jays,

past a mailbox of chain lettersand the mailman humminga bag filled with notes.

Because the girl confused languagefor languor, she rested her headon a pillow and the bicycle